


Untitled

by jouissant



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-25
Updated: 2010-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock knows how to take care of Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Themes: PWP, Roleplaying (daddy kink), cross-dressing, spanking, frottage, mild d/s.   
> Congratulations, kink meme, I am now going to special hell.
> 
> This vignette is now part of a trilogy: [A Firm Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/80467)

Being the youngest Starfleet captain in history is, frankly, pretty rough.  
It's definitely _awesome_, thinks Jim, but there are days when he feels run ragged and it's all he can do to pull his boots off before collapsing into bed. It's a steep learning curve, but he's getting it. The hardest thing is the responsibility. Jim's been taking responsibility for himself since the first time his mother went off-planet, but managing a ship of over 400 people and making sure they don't die is a little different than packing his own lunch and dragging himself out to the bus stop on time.

The third time he loses someone (Ensign Torres; an accident down in Engineering) he slams into his quarters and throws his communicator against the wall. It hits with a very satisfying crunch, sliding down to rest at the foot of his bed in a mangled pile of metal.   
"I have noticed that your requests for replacement communicators closely correlate to incidents of injury or death among the crew. It is illogical to persist in destroying valuable equipment in an attempt to assuage misplaced feelings of guilt." Spock is sitting at Jim's desk. Again. He's already set up the chessboard.

Jim's shoulders slump, and he bends to retrieve the remains of the communicator. "Can you use _my_ override code on my own lock? How do you even know my override code?'

"That is neither here nor there. Now, I believe I am owed a rematch."

*~*~*~*

Spock is there the night Torres died, and he just keeps coming. Some nights they play chess, game after game, until Jim can barely keep his eyes open and it's all he can do to see Spock off before crawling into bed and into blessed unconsciousness. Other times, they talk, of the minutiae of life on the ship, old stories from the Academy, everything and nothing.

The next time they lose someone, it's after a mission on an uncharted M-class planet in Sector 7 where everything went to shit. Jim is up late debriefing 'Fleet Command, then composing and filming a holo to send to Howell's parents, and when he finally drags himself into his quarters it's past 0100 hours. He's still wired, full of restless energy, and there's nowhere for it to go, and Spock is there again. He is sitting at Jim's desk, hands neatly folded on his lap. He has not set up the chessboard.

Instead, there is a red uniform neatly folded on the bed. Jim realizes with a start that it's a female-issue uniform. More specifically, a skirt.

"Spock? What-" He stops when he sees the look on Spock's face. He looks…almost dangerous, but not quite. Jim thinks it's more that he looks like he could handle anything right now. He is completely, unquestionably in control. His gaze holds Jim like a tractor beam.

"Jim," Spock says, his voice low. Something in his tone goes straight to Jim's cock. Somehow, bizarrely, it does not seem wildly inappropriate. "I believe you have had quite enough responsibility for one day. This evening, I will dictate your actions. Is this acceptable?" Jim nods, dumbly. "Good. If at any time you wish to end this association, you need only say. Please select a word to alert me to your desire to stop."

_Did Spock just ask me for my safeword?_ Jim says the first thing that pops into his head. "Uh. Marshmallow?" Before things went to hell on the planet, there was a campfire. Jim made Spock eat a s'more. Spock's eyes betray the barest hint of amusement at Jim's choice, but it's short-lived.

"Please remove your boots and your trousers, and replace them with the Starfleet uniform on the bed. Leave your briefs on."

Jim steps out of his boots and strips down to his black uniform-issue briefs. He realizes that, in all likelihood, Spock is wearing the same pair. He gasps as the cool recycled air hits his skin, raising gooseflesh all along his thighs. He's already half-hard, and he's willing to bet the tight black cotton isn't doing a great job of concealing that fact.

He picks up the deep blood-red skirt and slides it up over his hips, buttoning it at his waist. It's _short_, the hem hitting mid-thigh. He glances up at Spock, and fuck, one look at the Vulcan's face and his cock fills in earnest. Spock is still sitting at attention in Jim's desk chair, hands resting on his thighs, but his gaze is trained on Jim, eyes raking over his body from head to toe. Jim feels incredibly exposed; he may as well be naked under Spock's scrutiny. Spock raises a hand and beckons to Jim. "Come."

Jim steps forward. Spock continues to crook his index finger in a come-hither gesture, so Jim moves forward until he's close enough to Spock that his first officer can reach out and touch him. And touch him Spock does- he reaches out to cup Jim's erection through his briefs, assessing it as if it's a promising specimen on some uncharted planet. Spock bites his lower lip. When he speaks, he seems for a moment to be testing his role. "Ah…this is…excellent, Jim. You appear to be extremely responsive, and I have yet to employ direct stimuli." He squeezes gently, and Jim rewards him with a gasp. If Spock were human, Jim would have sworn he heard him chuckle. He rises slowly, maintaining his proximity to Jim. They are standing eye to eye, and Spock reaches out his hand to capture Jim's. Jim leans in to kiss him, but Spock moves away with a quiet, "No. Not now. Now, you will come with me." Spock leads him to the bed, where he sits stiffly, patting the mattress next to him. "Come. You will lie across my lap. You will face down, and you will keep your hands quite clear of me and of your body, or I shall be forced to restrain them. Is that understood?"

Jim nods. His mouth is dry; his tongue feels like it's packed in cotton. He doubts he could speak if he tried. He follows Spock's instructions, painfully aware that the short uniform skirt has hitched up over his ass and his cock is pressed torturously against Spock's thighs. He crosses his arms under his head, gripping the mattress slightly. There's the kiss of air on his skin, and he can practically feel Spock's gaze on him, assessing.

"Jim, I must inform you that your emotions have been regrettably obvious tonight. You are clearly experiencing difficulty maintaining control." He speaks these words easily, and Jim wonders vaguely if Spock has found himself the recipient of such a lecture before. "Your position implies an array of attendant responsibilities. While you continue to perform admirably in the face of much adversity, I find this continued lack of emotional control to be deleterious to your authority. It is unacceptable."

Inexplicably, Jim feels tears spring to his eyes. Something in Spock's tone- it's the Vulcan version of "I'm not mad, I'm _disappointed_." He makes a small sound of protest. "Shhh," Spock says. "Do not speak." Suddenly, Jim feels Spock's hand on his upper thighs. His touch ghosts over the thin cotton of Jim's underwear to find the waistband, and he slides a finger under the elastic there and pulls down. Jim instinctively raises his hips a bit to allow the fabric to shimmy down, exposing his ass but regrettably trapping his erection in a cocoon of fabric. He makes a frustrated noise. Again he hears that not-laugh from above him. Then several things happen at once. A hand- _Spock's hand, holy fuck, it's Spock's hand_ thinks Jim hysterically- collides with his bare ass. Jim's body jerks forward with the force of the blow, dragging his cock roughly across Spock's lap with a delicious friction.

A strangled cry escapes Jim's mouth. "I asked you not to speak," Spock chides in a carefully measured tone. It's such a bizarre contrast to the ridiculousness of the situation that Jim almost laughs, but that's before Spock takes his breath away with another blow to Jim's delicate skin. And another, and another- each whack of the Vulcan's open palm sends stinging heat radiating across Jim's ass, straight to his cock. Again and again and again, and there's no time for it to dissipate before another blow rains down. All Jim can feel is that heat: the burn on his skin and his cock, the hot shame that rises at the thought of how he must look. He's prone, sprawled across his First Officer's lap, ass in the air, taking spanking after spanking like…like…

_Like a child_, thinks Jim. He suddenly feels very small, and he never knew his father but with his eyes closed he might be five, six, seven years old and over his father's knee. And he's been bad, very bad, but it's all right, his daddy loves him, and it's for his own good, really. He needs this like bitter medicine. Jim sobs, and now hot tears escape, and he's pitching forward over and over, grinding his hips and twisting them just right with every blow from his daddy's hand. They are rock-solid, and as Jim gets closer he knows they won't stop, not until he gets what he deserves, what he needs. A voice from somewhere far away talks to him low and steady, _Yes_ and _So good, Jim,_ and it's suddenly too much. He's coming in hot pulses all over himself, all over his daddy's trousers, and he hopes he won't be angry because Jim can't help it, he can't.   
"I…I'm sorry," he gasps, and he feels long fingers in his hair, on his forehead. "Shh," says the voice. "It is all right. You are all right, now."

Jim is so tired. His head feels heavy, and he's so warm, and all he wants is to sleep. "Yes," says the voice, and his daddy is so good to him, because strong arms are lifting him, cradling him against a uniform-clad chest, and then Jim's head is laid to rest against the cool fabric of his pillow. He feels sheets and blankets tucked neatly around his chin, and then that hand is on his face again, so hot, wiping at the tracks of Jim's tears. Jim feels the brush of lips on his forehead. "Sleep," the voice tells him. "Sleep." Jim obeys.


End file.
